


Making Connections

by Haileycl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - High School, High School, M/M, Multi, Sherlock-centric, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-08 06:08:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4293678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haileycl/pseuds/Haileycl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which a boy can't go without one day of solving crimes and another that can't help but follow along.</p><p> (Johnlock, Teenlock)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introductory Deductions

### Introductory Deductions

"Bored."

John looked up from his book that he was reading and turned around in his chair. He thought nobody was in the library with him, and yet, there someone was, sitting in a chair with his feet on the table across from him.

"Sorry?" John asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Bored. I'm bored," the stranger replied, lifting his feet of the table in front of him and standing abruptly, knocking over the chair. He grabbed John's book and flung it across the library, which crashed into the bookshelves, and jumped up on the table.

"Bored, bored, bored, BORED!" He yelled. John looked at the stranger standing on the table in front of him, his mouth agape. "Bored."

John looked up from his book that he was reading and turned around in his chair. He thought nobody was in the library with him, and yet, there someone was, sitting in a chair with his feet on the table across from him.

"Sorry?" John asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Bored. I'm bored," the stranger replied, lifting his feet of the table in front of him and standing abruptly, knocking over the chair. He grabbed John's book and flung it across the library, which crashed into the bookshelves, and jumped up on the table.

"Bored, bored, bored, BORED!" He yelled. John looked at the stranger standing on the table in front of him, his mouth agape. _Who is this guy?_ He thought, as his brow furrowed and he cleared his throat.

"Um, excuse me, what exactly are you doing?"

The stranger looked down at him with piercing blue eyes, cocked and eyebrow, and blew a curly lock of ebony hair out of his pale face. He flicked up the collar of his long black coat, and jumped off the table and sat in the opposite chair beside John. He slouched in the hard plastic chair, narrowing his eyes at John, searching his face. He clasped his hands together and placed them to his lips. John cleared his throat awkwardly, assuming it would only be polite to make conversation, even if the guy sitting in front of him could possibly be mentally insane.

"Um, well, hello, I'm-"

"John Watson, yes, I know." Blue eyes (as John assumed that his would be a proper name, for now, for the stranger in front of him) cut him off. John stifled a gasp and widened his eyes. How could he know his name, when he only transferred to this school today? He spoke again, growing increasingly uncomfortable.

"Well, yes, um, it's nice to meet you, and might I ask who you-"

"I also know that you are new to this school, judging by not only the fact that you are not wearing the school uniform but also by your hunched posture and that you are in the library after the final bell, making it clear that you either do not want to be seen or you do not have any friends to hang out with. I'm assuming it's both. I also know that you have transferred from a school from the midlands, judging by the the way you slightly drag your vowels when you speak and by your heavier coat that you're wearing. Burlap? No. Canvas, yes, canvas. You also are part of the Air Cadets, which is obvious by looking at your posture when you walk and your hair cut. Which you recently just got, which is evident by the little groups of hairs on your shirt. Your brother-"

John gasped. "My brother-"

"Yes, your brother. Looking at your worn clothes and your shiny new watch, it seems like you do not buy anything new for yourself, if you don't have to. So the watch must have been a gift. From who, though? Your Mother? No, it seems more like a gift your father or a brother would get you. Nothing too sentimental, and a pretty mainstream gift, might I add. But it's not from your dad either, and not from a sister by the looks of it, so then your brother. Could be a cousin, but no, it is from your brother. How do I know? The clasp is dirty, so you don't take it off often, stating that it must be a personal gift, it has some importance to you. _Harry_ , that's his name. Again, how do I know? The engraving, on the inside of the clock, _To John from Harry_. Now if it was your father, I assume that it would say something like, _From Dad_ , making it more personal. And who is on a first name basis with their parents? So following process of elimination, it is your brother." He stopped and took a breath, and searched John's face. "Hmm, what else? Oh, yes, you left in a rush this morning, you have a ketchup on the side of your chin from eating on the tube, an egg sandwich-"

"How can you possibly know I had an egg sandwich?" John asked.

"Shot in the dark. Good one though," He looked over and smirked. "The right side of your shirt is untucked. Your dark circles under your eyes also indicate that you slept in, after not getting enough sleep the night before. Nerves for the first day maybe? Therefore the explanation for your rushing." He stuck his hand out. "The name's Sherlock Holmes, in case you were wondering."

John took his hand, although his own was now clammy and shaking a bit. "That," He took a breath, "was amazing."

Sherlock's forehead creased and he looked away. "You think so?"

"Of course it was. Extraordinary, it was quite extraordinary." John replied, still in a state of awe mixed with shock.

Sherlock looked back at him. "That's not what people normally say."

"And what do people normally say?"

Sherlock's mouth quirked up. "Piss off."

John stifled a laugh. He looked up into Sherlock's startling blue eyes, and Sherlock looked back, holding their gaze for a beat too long. A beep ran out suddenly and Sherlock grabbed his phone and looked down at it, a wide grin slowly spreading across his face. "Yes!" He cried, shoving his phone into his pocket and wrapping a blue scarf around his neck. "Oh, yes, yes, yes!" He stood up and started to head off towards the exit when he looked behind him at John. "You coming, then?"

John shifted in his seat. "Um, I-I don't know, I have homework and-"

"No you don't."

 _Damn_.

"Anyway, I best be off, see you." Sherlock ran off out the door.

"Wait!" John yelled, scrambling to shove all his books into his bag. He didn't really have anything planned for tonight, and there was something about Sherlock that was... strangley likeable. Even though something about him felt a bit off, not safe. He was rude, yes, obnoxious and could possibly be mad, but he was charming, in a way. He texted his mother, who would probably be ecstatic that he was leaving the house.

_going out with a friend. will be back for supper._

Just as he hit send, he ran out the door just in time to catch Sherlock climbing onto a bus. "Where would we be going?"

Sherlock looked back at him and grinned. "A crime scene."


	2. There's a First Time for Everything

### There's a First Time for Everything

" _A crime scene_?"

John jumped onto the bus just as the doors closed behind him. Sherlock sighed as he climbed the stairs to the upper level of the double-decker. 

"Yes, a crime scene. Also known as the place where an offense has been committed and forensic evidence may be gathered. Any other questions?"

John just stared point blank at him.

"Okay, you've got questions."

Sherlock walked to the edge of the bus and leaned against the guard rail. John moved to lean beside him, and stared at the passing shops and buildings of London. He glanced at Sherlock to find him already looking at him with those clear, blue eyes. Sherlock raised his eyebrow.

_Questions. Right._

"Yeah, so, how did you know all those things about me? Did you look me up or something?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No. I merely observed, and made further deductions after. Really, it's quite simple." He paused. "Actually it's not. For myself it is, anyway. I can only imagine how difficult it could be for the rest of you lot."

"Um, okay. But how did you know? Did you just look at me and guess all those things about me?"

"You see, that's where everyone gets it wrong. I don't look at people, I observe. I-" The bus slowed to a stop. "This is our stop."

Sherlock sat straight up and started running down towards the bottom of the bus, pushing and shoving people out of his way. John followed, mumbling "sorry" to the poor souls that happened to be in Sherlock's path. He left the bus, looking for Sherlock in the mass of people in front of him.

"Come on, John!"

John turned around and saw Sherlock running a block away. "For God's sake," he mumbled as he followed after him.

After many turns and many moments where John was _absolutely one hundred percent sure_ he was going to die from exhaustion, they arrived at the edge of the Thames. Yellow police tape, ambulances, police officers and investigators crowded the edge of the river. Sherlock advanced towards the tape, and John froze. _What is he doing?_

"Sherlock!" John whispered urgently. “What are you doing!” Sherlock kept walking. _What does he think he is doing, walking onto a crime scene?_ John panicked, and ran until he stopped in front of him. Sherlock stopped and looked down at John, confused. “What?”

“Sherlock, you can’t just walk right onto a crime scene! I’m pretty sure that there is a law against that! Actually, I know there is a law against that!”

“Why are you whisper-screaming at me?”

“I’m not-” John paused and cleared his throat. “Sherlock, the police are _right there_. I really don’t think-”

“John, it’s going to be fine.”

“Sherlock, I-”

Sherlock sighed. “Listen, John, if you don’t feel comfortable or you’re afraid, I suggest that you leave now before you follow me any further.” 

John blinked. “I’m not afraid.” 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “ _Really_.”

John nodded.

“Well, good. I prefer talking to a person while I work. I like talking out loud. Talking to a skull is not so much accepted in society as much as a person, nowadays.”

“You _talk_ to a-”

“Sherlock!” Sherlock and John turned around to see a young man walking towards them from behind the tape. “Listen, Sherlock, my dad can only give you three minutes.”

Sherlock put his hand in his pocket and took out a pair of black leather gloves. “I only need three minutes.”

“You know, Sherlock, I can’t keep telling my dad that you need to come on every investigation for a school project. I mean, how many school projects involve a _murder_? My dad is getting-” he stopped talking and looked towards John. “Oy! Who’s this?”

“My… assistant. For the investigation.”

“You need an _assistant_? Since when? Sherlock, you can’t just bring-”

“Just tell your father, Mr. Lestrade, that I’m in a group project. Really, George, it’s not that difficult.”

“For God’s sake, Sherlock, my name’s not-”

John, growing increasingly uncomfortable, interjected. “Name’s John Watson. Greg, is it? I think I’ve seen you at school. We’re in Bio 11 together, right?”

“Right. You’re that new kid, aren’t you? Just came in today? Probably have had quite an interesting day hanging around with Sher-”

“If you don’t mind,” Sherlock stepped in between John and Greg. “There is a dead body and a murder to be solved, so maybe you can save the pleasantries for later? Thanks.” 

Greg rolled his eyes and walked under the tape, motioning for Sherlock and John to follow pursuit. Sherlock walked under the tape, holding it up for John to go under. Sherlock moved up towards Greg, leaving John a little behind, looking at all the reporters and policemen that he passed. This was certainly not how he had expected his first day to go. As they walked closer to the scene, Greg stopped and threw John and himself blue coveralls.

“So what is the case?” Sherlock asked Greg, slipping on his gloves while Greg zipped up the coverall.”

“Her name was Christy Marfel. Thirty-two years old, multiple stab wounds across the body. Married. Thought to be murdered at about 2:30 this afternoon. Take a look for yourself.”

They rounded past a group of detectives and policemen to the scene. A middle-aged woman lay on her stomach, blood stains covering her clothes and body. A massive slash on her black was enough to make John gag. 

“Well, Sherlock, there she is. Let’s see what you can find out in three minutes.”

Sherlock stared at the woman from a distance, then, flicking his coat collar up, he advanced towards the woman, walking a slow, large circle around her, then suddenly stopped and looked at Greg. “Shut up.”

Greg looked taken aback. “Excuse me?”

“You were thinking. It’s annoying.”

“Oh for-” Greg rolled his eyes and grabbed his phone. “Fine, I’m gone. Three minutes. You hear me, Sherlock? I’m timing you.” He showed Sherlock the phone for effect before he walked off the shore.  
Sherlock continued observing in silence, crouching down, feeling the sand, occasionally checking his phone and constantly pulling out his small magnifier, examining the victim. After a couple of minutes he stood up and looked at John. “What do you think?”

John looked behind himself then turned around to find Sherlock looking at him. “Me?” 

“Well, would there be anyone else’s opinion I would ask?”

“It’s not like I can provide any useful information. You’re the _expert_.”

Sherlock walked closer to John until they were face to face. “That’s not true. At least, when you said can’t provide any useful information.” He gave a small smile to John, looking into his eyes. John felt his face heat up, and immediately started to panic. _Why am I blushing?_

“But all things aside, I am actually quite interested on what you think.”

“Hm?” John looked towards the voice and found Sherlock back near the body. John walked closer to the body, and a waft of rotting fish filled his nostrils. He immediately covered his nose. 

“Ah, good observation, John. She is quite… ripe, isn’t she?”

“You’re taking this very lightly.”

“Why would I be upset? It’s not like I knew her. Anyway, your thoughts John.”

John ignored the sociopathic comment and kneeled beside the woman, examining her body, careful not to get too close. He didn’t see anything out of the blue. It was a basic murder. He shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t see anything unusual.”

Sherlock sighed and ran his hands through his curls in frustration. “What is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring. _Look_ John!”

“I don’t see anything!”

“It’s right in front of you! It’s literally _right in front of you_!”

“Well, I can’t see it. What am I missing? What can’t I see?”  
Sherlock crouched beside the woman, just as Greg came back. “Well, Sherlock, what d’you got?”

“Firstly, nobody was murdered here this afternoon, obviously.”

Greg frowned. “What are you talking about? And what you mean _obviously_?”

“I mean,” Sherlock pointed at the sand. “If she was murdered on the beach this afternoon, wouldn’t there be blood seeped into the sand from the wounds?” He pointed to her right shoulder. "Look at that stab wound. Punctured straight through the subcalvin artery. An artery that big, punctured that deep should _still_ be bleeding out. _So where is the blood?"_

Greg and John looked at the sand. There, in fact, was no blood on the sand. Greg crossed his arms over his chest. “What if the tide just washed it away?”

Sherlock drew out his phone and showed it to him. “Impossible. Look, this said the tide last came up at 11:30am, three hours before the body was found on the beach. The next tide arrives at 6:15, fifteen minutes from now. Might want to suggest your father to move the group and body before then, by the way. So when did she get killed? And where? Obviously not here, at the state of her attire.”

“Her attire?” Greg asked.

“First of all, who goes to the Thames on a walk in the middle autumn in a tailored suit in the middle of the day? And look at her shoes! Who wears high heels to the beach? But more importantly, why aren’t they dirty? Why isn’t _any_ of the clothing dirty? There are no immediate signs of struggle, or signs of movement. Her clothes should be covered in sand and dirt. _I_ already have sand all over me and I haven’t even walked more than ten meters! And-”

John started smiling. He couldn’t help it. “Brilliant.”

Sherlock smirked and continued. “-where is her family? Usually families go out together, for bonding time and all that. Look at her jewelry.” He brought us closer to her face and opened the necklace that hung at her neck. Two pictures of smiling small children fit in the locket. He then showed them her marriage ring. “Her jewelry’s all clean, showing that she cleans it often, you know, having sentiment and happiness and whatnot with both her children and partner. So if she loves them that much, and is that close to them, she would have brought them on a walk with her. So where and what was the last thing she did? Take a look at her jacket and umbrella.” Sherlock pointed to her slashed back and pointed towards an umbrella in her pocket. “They’re both wet. Not from the river, it doesn’t have the same smell. It came from the rain, and by looking at the state of the cuts on her back, they look to me about two, no, three days old. The sand beneath her is dry, but her coat is still wet, meaning wherever her body was kept before it was outside in the rain. It hasn’t rained in this area of London for the past three days, so where was it raining for the last three days?” He held up his phone again and a receipt for a restaurant dated a week ago in Oxford from the woman’s pocket for John and Greg to see. “Oxford.”

John’s mouth hung open in awe. “Brilliant!”

Sherlock turned around to face him. “You do realize you’re speaking out loud.”

“Oh, um, right, sorry.”

“No,” Sherlock smiled. “Really, it’s fine. Please, continue.” He turned back to Greg.  
“Galvin, tell your father we’re looking for a murderer, possibly a cabbie, tour guide, or any driver of sorts, native to Oxford but most likely still in London. The weapon used was a Muskrat Clip Blade. It should be discarded somewhere around here, possibly in the river. Contact the family, find them and ask them if they knew anyone that didn’t like her, or followed her in Oxford. And most importantly, _who killed Christy Marfel_?”  
Sherlock ran off, with Greg following out mumbling about how Sherlock can get everything right except his name, and leaving John staring at Sherlock’s back as Sherlock climbed onto the last bus going into his street. John shook out of his daze and checked his phone. 

_9:13pm_  
_16 unread messages from mum_  
_5 unheard calls from mum_  
_3 unread messages from Harry_

“Bullocks,” John swore to himself as he walked under the police tape and onto the sidewalk back to the bus stop. Now he was going to get grounded and miss supper. _Or talk to Sherlock again_ , but he shoved that thought away. Why was he thinking about him? His father’s voice ran through his head.  
_Focus on what matters. You got carried away again. Stop thinking you have feelings for him. You are a MAN, John. Grow up. I did not raise a homosexual._

John grit his teeth and sped up into a sprint, convincing himself that the growing tightness in his throat and wet eyes were because of how hard he was running, and not of how he was feeling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a long one! Sorry if you guys don't like them this long :\ Let me know your preference in the comments, just so I know how long you all prefer to have the chapters! Also, I know that I have updated this pretty quickly, and I would LOVE to keep it that way, but in reality I might be only able to update once or twice a week (sorry!). Thank you sooo much for the kudos and hits and everything. <3
> 
>  
> 
> also john is smol and sexually confused my poor baby :((((


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